


Good Books, Bad Movies

by Amelia_Clark



Series: Good Books, Bad Movies [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: "want" is technically Old Norse but whatever, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Anal Sex, Banter banter banter, Hopeful Ending, I WANT TO SHOP AT THIS BOOKSTORE, M/M, Makeouts, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Shameless Self-Indulgence, Top!Cas, bottom!Dean, fanboys vs fangirls, indie bookseller fanfic, use of the word "boner" dedicated to my husband, why yes this is the nerdiest thing I've ever written, you'll need to get those professionally cleaned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak is an award-winning, heavily tattooed writer of dark fantasy (think China Mieville). Dean Winchester runs a quirky book/video store called Good Books, Bad Movies. There's a reading, some lit-nerd flirting, and eventually smut amongst the shelves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel Novak's three published novels had garnered two Hugos, a Nebula, and a World Fantasy Award; he was also a regular fixture on the Tumblr fuckyeahhotnerds, where readers of all genders posted and reposted paeans to his arresting blue eyes (and speculation on just how much of his body was tattooed) with emoticoned abandon. But if the beefy security guard currently eyeing him with suspicion was aware of these achievements, he remained unimpressed. "I'm gonna need to see some ID," the man said gruffly.

Sighing, Castiel started digging in his satchel--it never failed, whatever he needed was always at the bottom. He knew he didn't look like a sci-fi author. It was his arms, he thought, sinuous with muscle and covered from wrist to shoulder (and yes, beyond) with vividly inked scenes and patterns and quotes. Add the silver rings in his left ear and his penchant for leather pants, and he looked more likely to beat the crap out of most of this convention's attendees, rather than be a featured speaker.

He found his wallet and a creased schedule. "Look, here," he said, brandishing the paper. "Room 12, 2:30—'Optimism vs. Pessimism in SFF: Castiel Novak in conversation with Connie Willis.' That's me. And Connie Willis."

Still skeptical, the guard checked the name on his driver's license, gaze flickering between the unflattering picture (everybody's license photo looks like a mug shot, but Castiel's looked like he's been dragged in after setting fire to an animal shelter on the day of the orphanage field trip) and the man before him. "Let me guess, you’re ‘Pessimism.’ All right, come on in," he said grudgingly.

"Thank you," sighed Castiel, checking his watch. Great, now he had to run across the whole complex to get there on time. Cons were getting to be more trouble than they were worth. He would talk to his publicist, see if he could do some smaller readings this tour, at weird little bookstores like the ones he'd haunted as an awkward teenager. He missed the smell of used paperbacks.

************

Dean Winchester loved the smell of used paperbacks. When he had a spare moment he'd just go hang out in one of those sections, like Charlie's collection of 50s lesbian pulp novels, and breathe in that peculiar mix of dust and ink and paper, like a fairytale forest.

Of course, owning a bookstore meant he never had a spare moment, ever. Though Dean technically rented an apartment a few blocks away, he was rarely there to do anything but sleep—and even that he often did at the store, on the plush paisley sofa by the picture books. But really, why would he even want to leave? Everything he needed—everything he loved—was here. Good Books, Bad Movies was his baby; "no," he'd announced last New Year's Eve, during the staff's traditional done-with-inventory bacchanal, "this store is _my soul made manifest_." 

(Whereupon Kevin had threatened to barf on the Latter-Day Crazy-Eyed Nic Cage display, Anna had rolled her eyes so hard she made herself dizzy, and Charlie had confiscated his bottle of champagne with a motherly tsk; but all three of them admitted later that they knew exactly what he meant.)

The store’s mission statement was exactly what it said on the sign: first, to showcase the best books in any genre you could think of—and some that the staff had invented, like “Most Likely to Be Shoplifted By Teenage Boys,” which featured Kerouac, Vonnegut, & Bukowski, and was locked in a glass case behind the counter; or “Publisher Crushes,” where small-press aficionado Anna displayed the NYRB Classics and Europa Editions titles that made her “all tingly” (a direct quote). The other half of the store boasted an impressive selection of the campiest, most inept, and outright shittiest movies ever filmed. There were sections devoted to “Holiday Horror” ( _Thankskilling; Silent Night, Deadly Night; Bloody New Year_ ), “Talking Animals” ( _Air Bud, Beverly Hills Chihuahua, A Talking Cat?!?_ )—and where the other indie video store in town’s “Great Directors” wall featured Kurosawa, Polanski, and Fellini, theirs was filled with the oeuvres of Roger Corman, Ed Wood, & John Carpenter. And there was even an entire shelf of VHS—Dean was always hitting up garage sales and thrift stores for weird shit that would never make it to a more useful format.

With such an off-kilter inventory, the store wasn’t really a moneymaker, though they had turned a profit after the first year. It was a labor of love, pure and simple, financed by Dean’s inheritance from his parents, who had died in a house fire seven years ago, and a hefty chunk of capital from his big-shot lawyer little brother, Sam. What it managed to be was a destination, a place where people came to browse for hours, get passionate recommendations from the staff, eat one of Charlie’s vegan cupcakes, and once or twice a month, hear an author read and get their latest book signed.

Most of the authors who came to the store were what the trade called mid-list—writers with a solid following, but no Oprah’s Book Club picks or _New York Times_ bestsellers. Which is one of the reasons why, when Dean took the call from Castiel Novak’s publicist and realized she was serious about arranging an event, he choked on his coffee.

The other was that Castiel Novak was the hottest fucking thing on four wheels.

“E-excuse me, I’m sorry,” he said through a coughing fit. “ _The_ Castiel Novak? The one who wrote _Last Leviathan_?” _The one I’ve been writing imaginary fan letters to since I first saw his jacket photo?_ he didn’t say. _The one with the ice-blue eyes and the best guns in SFF literature?_ “Why, uh, yes, we’d be happy to host Mr. Novak. November? Yeah, I think the 4th is free. That’s a Monday. Yeah. Yes. Sure! Email me the details. Can’t wait!”

Dean hung up the phone. “Oh my God,” he said out loud to his closet of an office. Where the fuck were they going to fit the chairs?


	2. Chapter 2

"Hold on to your knickers, ladies, you are not gonna believe this," said Dean, pulling the door to his office shut behind him.

Behind the counter, Anna jumped guiltily and tabbed out of something on the computer. Dean met her faux-innocent gaze: "Were you looking at Petfinder again?" he asked, half teasing, half warning in his tone.

"A bookstore needs a cat, Dean," she said. "It's like not having shelves or something. Unnatural."

"I'm here 80-plus hours a week, I'd kind of like to be able to breathe," Dean said. They'd been having this argument on a weekly basis since she was hired—it was more or less ceremonial at this point, a leftover from the more serious bickering that had doomed them as a couple back in college. "Seriously, though, guess who I just lined up to read here in three weeks. Think big."

"Virginia Woolf."

"Think _alive_."

"Margaret Atwood. J.K. Rowling. Zadie Smith? I don't know, I'm shit at guessing," as Dean kept shaking his head.

"Neil Gaiman?" Charlie piped up from behind a stack of boxes. 

"Warmer," said Dean.

"But not him? Ugh, it's never Neil Gaiman," she pouted.

"Castiel Novak, OK? Castiel Novak is coming here in November."

"Holy shit, that's awesome!" Anna did momentary jazz hands, but dropped them at Dean's stricken expression. "You don't look like that's awesome. Why not?"

"Because he _WUVS_ him," Charlie cooed, emerging from her receiving corner with a stack of paperbacks. "Because he wants to MARRY him and have his BABIES."

"He's really fucking talented, OK?" said Dean, crossing his arms out of suddenly not knowing what to do with them.

"Yeah, and really fucking hot. I'd hit that, and I don't even drive stick," Charlie said.

"OK, yes, really fucking hot. But I can't say that when I meet him, and I'm pretty sure my brain is gonna turn to mush and I'll just squeak at him like some sort of—"

" _Fangirl,_ " said Charlie with delight. "Dean, you are fangirling SO HARD right now."

"Shut up!" Dean snapped, blushing. "I'm a boy. I'd be a fanboy."

"Oh no you would not," said Charlie. "There is a world of difference, Dean, Imma school you. Fan _boys_ are the assholes who ask about continuity errors at cons like they're part of the story. They're the ones who can tell you all the technical specs for the Enterprise D but don’t care about Wesley's sweater collection. A fan _girl_ not only cares about the sweaters, she knitted herself a replica of the stripey one AND a matching one for her dog, ahem," she pointed at herself, "because greatest sweater ever. Fanboys are obsessed with _things._ Fangirls are obsessed with _people_."

"Do you deliver that speech often?" Anna asked. "It's surprisingly cogent for you."

Charlie stuck out her tongue. "It's like your anti-Amazon rant. A cause near and dear to my heart."

"Hey! Boss man here. Crisis. Pay attention," said Dean. "Fangirl or not, he's the biggest name we've ever had here. We're gonna need our fucking ducks in a row, I don't want to look like any more of an idiot than I have to."

"Yessir, Mr. Winchester, sir," said Charlie with a mock salute. "Seriously, it'll be awesome. Your big deal author crush is gonna be blown away." And if she paused an unnecessary nanosecond between the last two words, well, that was probably an accident.

************

Castiel's first book tour, for a short story collection called _Family Business_ , consisted of visits to five bookstores within a day's drive of his hometown and one appearance in Baltimore, where his brother Gabe lived. He'd read to audiences of a dozen or so, sold a few copies from the box he'd gotten at cost from the publisher, and spent the rest of his days getting lost in new towns, wearing through two pairs of Converse just walking for hours before he'd crash in some anonymous motel and be lulled to sleep by traffic on the highway. It was exhausting but exhilarating.

He didn't get to do that anymore.

These days, he was a brand, an investment, too important to the publisher to unleash on the masses unescorted. (There were exceptions, of course, like the panel with Connie Willis, but they didn't always go well. His "people skills" could charitably be termed "rusty.") So he traveled with his publicist, Meg Masters, a small brunette with a perpetual smirk and the energy of a woman possessed. She kept track of details and got him where he needed to be, ran interference with press and fans and bookstore staff, and except for that one night in Missouri they shared a toast too many and sucked face for a hot minute, they've had a wholly professional relationship.

Thanks to her ruthless efficiency, he could nap on the plane into KC, doze in the cab, take the double shot of espresso she pressed into his hand as they tumbled out of the vehicle and through the front door of Good Books, Bad Movies. He took in impressions without detail: dark wood, handwritten signs, a maze of shelving in the small space, and everywhere, the comfort of books, the company of stories. He breathed in; _yes_ , that was the smell he’d been missing, arrowing straight to memory. This store felt like home.

Meg was introducing him to the staff, names lost in his general blur: two women, hair dyed differing shades of crimson—one wore all black, the other a T-shirt proclaiming “I <3 <3 Doctor Who”; a young Asian man in khakis, dark circles under his eyes; “and this is the owner, Dean Winchester.” Castiel extended his hand mechanically, met the other man’s eyes—and froze.

Castiel had met a lot of bookstore owners; they’d run the gamut from sweet but skeptical little old ladies to the redheaded Brooklynite who shoved up the sleeve of her cardigan to compare tattoos. He had never, ever met one as ridiculously good-looking as Dean Winchester.

He was tall and leanly muscular, with short dark hair and hazel eyes shifting towards green, and a full, graceful mouth like a kiss at rest. Castiel worked with words for a living, made money with words, got awards for words—but right now he could only think in syllables, short bursts of Anglo-Saxon breath: _hot_ and _want_ and _fuck_.

Desperate to distract himself from that face, Castiel flicked his eyes down to Dean’s T-shirt, gray and orange, the fiery cover of Ray Bradbury’s _Fahrenheit 451_. “'It was a pleasure to burn,’” he quoted abruptly.

“What?” Dean looked shocked for a moment. “Oh, my shirt. Yeah, we sell these, different covers of classics. I thought dystopia seemed appropriate.”

“Right,” said Castiel, and then forgot how to speak again as Dean smiled.

He realized suddenly he was still holding the other man’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to an author friend on Twitter for author-tour background; Castiel's early experiences are her own. Also, props to my redheaded, tattooed Brooklynite former boss, who is unaware that she's making a cameo appearance in smut.
> 
> Dean's T-shirt is available [here.](http://shop.outofprintclothing.com/Fahrenheit_451_book_cover_t_shirt_p/b-1020.htm)


	3. Chapter 3

_Say something, Winchester,_ thought Dean furiously. _Say something, and for fuck’s sake let go of his hand._ But he couldn't move. Photos could capture the color of Castiel's eyes—startling blue, like a Siamese cat’s—but not their intensity. The author's gaze was piercing through him like...like...well, the last time someone looked at Dean like that, he got laid. Which could not possibly be what Castiel intended. It had to be Dean's overheated imagination, worked up to fever pitch by weeks of teasing from his staff ("we're just gonna lock you in your office with him and a bottle of lube," gloated Charlie).

And when Castiel didn't drop his hand, but slid his own slowly from Dean's grip, fingers curling soft against his palm? That was also his imagination. Totally normal. Nothing to see here.

Dammit, he could _feel_ Charlie's smirk behind him.

“Okay,” said Castiel (and again, video could duplicate the timbre of his voice but not the way it resonated though Dean’s whole body, ringing him slow and deep like distant church bells), “where do you want me?”

 _Bent over the counter. Up against the shelves. Holding me down while you fuck my brains out,_ Dean thought, and said, “Oh, we don’t really have a green room. You wanna stow your shit in my office, we’re aiming to start in about an hour and a half. Browse if you want to or have some dinner. There’s a good, cheap Indian buffet a couple doors down.”

“Sounds good,” said Meg, taking the author’s elbow and steering him in the direction Dean pointed. This time there was no mistaking it: the glance Castiel threw over his shoulder toward him was _hungry_ in a way that had nothing to do with tikka masala. One of the girls let out a little whimper; who, Dean couldn’t say.

“Jesus Mary and Joseph,” Anna hissed once they were safely out of earshot. “I need a cold shower.”

“What?” said Kevin.

“Ugh, straight men,” huffed Charlie. “Did you seriously miss the epic eyefucking just now? That right there was enough UST to launch a thousand Tumblrs.’

“Oh, that,” Kevin deadpanned. “Yeah, dude, you should probably hit that.”

 _“That_ is a _who,_ and I am not going to throw myself at him, because _I am at work,_ and so is he, and so are all of you.” Dean heaved a carton of Castiel’s latest novel, _Celestial Intent_ , onto the counter and started stacking. “We gotta get set up by the time they come back, cause people are gonna start showing up and then we’ll be too busy to discuss whatever it is you think you saw. Which you didn’t see.”

He was right—they were soon overwhelmed with customers, the whole store buzzing with excitement, and Dean managed to mute his inconvenient attraction while he set up chairs, made change, handed out Post-Its for people to flag a book’s title page with their name spelled right for signing. And he didn’t stumble through his introduction, or accidentally use the word “lickable.” 

Of course, when Castiel started reading, said attraction sped to the forefront again, as he leaned against a pillar and closed his eyes, letting the rich baritone rumble through him, growing dizzy as blood rushed out of his head to regions southward. Castiel reveled in polysyllables, and he pronounced words like he was tasting them: sibilant esses, the flow of liquid consonants, vowels like honey on his tongue. When Dean opened his eyes, Castiel’s gaze was focused not on the book but fixed on him.

And great, now he had a boner at work.

He called up the least erotic thing he could think of—the sex scenes in _The Room_ —and managed to calm himself down sufficiently to wrangle the signing line, which required some switchbacks to even fit in the store. They ended up having to stay open later than usual: it was 9:45 when the last fan left, clutching her newly autographed book, and Anna locked the door behind her.

Charlie yelled “Huzzah!” and headed straight for the computer, to find an 80s Pandora station and crank it up. Dean grabbed a six-pack of Boulevard from the mini-fridge in his office and passed it around; Meg demurred, but Castiel grinned and took an IPA, raising it in toast with the booksellers.

Usually they dawdled after an event, too drained to get the closing tasks done in any hurry; tonight Dean’s staff was suspiciously quick in their duties, stowing the chairs and cleaning in record time. “Alldonewe’releavingnowseeyoutomorrow!” cried Charlie, hustling her co-workers out with her. She thrust a triumphant fist in the air as they left.

So then it was just Dean and Castiel—and Meg, who yawned as she hefted her tote bag. “We should head out,” she said to Castiel.

He stood up and stretched; the flash of hipbones above his leather pants made Dean’s mouth go dry. “I’d like to stick around and sign stock if I may,” he said, looking at Dean.

“That’d be great,” said Dean. “We don’t even have that many left, but they’ll sell faster if they’re signed.”

“You can go ahead and go,” Castiel urged Meg. “I can find my own way there.”

She frowned. “This isn’t New York, you know. There aren’t cabs on every corner.”

“I’ll drive him,” Dean said suddenly, too loud. “I mean, it’s no big deal, really. You can go get some rest.”

Meg shrugged. “Whatever. We’re at the Crowne Plaza, 5 a.m. wakeup call. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dean locked the door again behind her, puttered about the store closing blinds and putting misplaced books back on shelves. Castiel took the stack of unsold books and a Sharpie over to the sofa and started scribbling in them. “Hey, Dean,” he said after a moment.

Dean didn’t turn around so he could make an articulate answer instead of staring. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Here, I wanted to sign a copy for you,” Castiel said. “I mean, you probably have the ARC, but—”

“Oh, hey, that’s great, thank you,” stammered Dean, walking over to take the copy Castiel was holding out almost timidly. “I’m gonna go count down the register, let me know when you’re done.”

It was quiet after that (Charlie’s tunes having been cut off at her exit), just the scratch of Castiel’s pen on paper and the chime of coins as Dean counted. The book sat next to him, and finally he couldn’t resist—he had to see what Castiel wrote. Probably just “To Dean, Castiel Novak,” but some authors had little tags or doodles they liked to add.

He flipped to the title page and read:

**Dean: I am leaving town in approximately seven hours, and I would like to spend as many of them as possible reading your body like a book. –Cas**

Whereupon Dean dropped a 700-page-hardcover on his foot.


	4. Chapter 4

Cas heard the book drop, and the muttered “Mother of _fuck_ ” that followed. He kept his eyes fixed on the page before him, fervently hoping he had interpreted the other man's stares correctly.

Dean came out from behind the counter, leaned against it in faux nonchalance. "So, uh, you go by Cas?"

"I do sometimes."

"That's nice, I like it." Dean's whole being seemed just on the verge of motion, like a runner waiting for the starter's pistol. "Uh, what you wrote, you, uh, you meant it?”

"I did." Cas leaned back on the sofa, deliberately moving his gaze down Dean's body. Where this bravado came from, he'd no idea. Despite his carefully cultivated badass exterior, he was generally shy in social—and especially sexual—situations. 

But Dean was making him bold.

"I, uh,” stammered Dean. “You do this at every stop on tour, I'll bet."

"No! No, not at all. I've actually never done this. That's why I had to do it in writing—I’m so much better with that than saying things out loud."

Dean took a step forward, looked down at his feet as if considering another. "Why, then? Why me?"

"You mean, besides that you're gorgeous?" Dean didn't look up, but Cas could see the beginnings of a smile. "You're—I'm going to use the most pedestrian, vague adjectives, I can't help it—you're amazing. This store, what you've built. I can look around, I can learn who you are just being here. It's like I can see into your soul, and it's a beautiful shining thing. I want to dive into it, and sex is the only way I know how to do that."

They were staring at each other now, their gaze threaded on one double string. "Fuck, Cas," said Dean. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Just come here," said Cas. "Please."

Dean whimpered, actually _whimpered_ , and crossed the room; he wasn't even fully seated before Cas was on him, one hand clutching Dean's T-shirt over his heart, the other sliding beneath the hem, running feather-light along his stomach and side. He pulled him in and kissed him.

Dean's mouth was lush and yielding as a just-ripe peach, and he gasped as Cas pushed his tongue past his lips, brought both hands up to tangle in Cas's hair. Already impatient, Cas rucked Dean's shirt up past his ribs, sliding his palms over every inch of skin he could reach; he found a nipple and stroked it hard, drinking in the helpless noises this wrung out of the other man.

Dean tried to pull his shirt off without breaking the kiss, which quickly proved topographically impossible. Cas laughed and finished the job, then shoved him back against the arm of the couch, pressing one thigh up into his cock where it strained against his jeans. Dean tipped his head back and groaned; Cas took the invitation to lick down his jaw and bite softly at his neck where his pulse fluttered just beneath the surface.

“Hmm, what’s this?” asked Cas when his mouth skimmed over Dean’s pounding heart. “You’ve got a tattoo.” It looked like an antique piece of construction equipment, drawn in muted grays and given a cheery face.

“It’s, uhm, it’s Mary Anne,” said Dean. Cas looked blank. “It’s from a kids’ book. _Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel?_ Mary Anne’s the steam shovel.” He blushed. “It was my first favorite book, when I was three. When I opened the store, I wanted to do something permanent to commemorate it, and this is what came to mind.”

“You are fucking adorable,” Cas growled, and attacked him again, tugging open the buttons of his fly and kissing down his stomach.

“Wait,” Dean said in strangled tones, as Cas’s teeth picked at the elastic waistband of his boxers. “Waitwait _wait._ ”

Surprised, Cas looked up into Dean’s lust-glazed eyes, which shifted away from him in embarrasment. “You, uh, you blow me, it’s gonna be over too fast. It’s been a while, and I’m out of practice.”

“Poor thing. That’s fine, we can do something else.” Cas crooked an eyebrow. “Suggestions?”

“Let me do you, OK? But not here. Somewhere else in the store.”

“Why?”

“Because we do storytime on Tuesdays, and I am not going to suck you off on the same piece of furniture I use to read _Knuffle Bunny_ to preschoolers.”

“Makes sense. Where, then? Do you have an erotica section?”

Dean laughed. “Not really? There’re some erotic thrillers over on the video side, but they’re not actually sexy.” Half-sitting up, he scanned the store; Cas, less than helpful, started nibbling at his neck again.

“Fuck it,” Dean said after a minute of that. “Just lean back against the counter, I don’t care.” He sprang to his feet, pulling Cas up after him and backing him clumsily across to the front counter, where Dean dropped to his knees and slid his hands up the inside of Cas’s thighs. “Fucking _leather pants._ I am a walking fucking cliché for finding these so hot.”

“I’m glad you like them,” Cas managed to say, the sentence trailing off into a gasp as Dean unzipped his fly and yanked his pants and briefs down to mid-thigh. His cock bobbed free, Dean’s breath on it hot as he leant forward and licked a stripe up the underside, curling his tongue around the head a few times before swallowing him down.

Bracing himself against the counter, Cas gave himself over to Dean's practiced attentions, a perfect mix of flickering tongue and surrounding mouth. Keeping his thrusts shallow grew more and more difficult, until Dean pulled off of him with a slurp and said, grinning, "Go for it, I can take it."

Cas groaned and sped up, hitting the back of Dean's throat as he drove deeper; Dean's hands tightened reflexively on his hipbones, but he didn't move, just looked up to lock eyes with Cas as he fucked his face. His eyes were somehow greener now, Cas noticed—and then came hard, babbling curses and endearments and Dean's name.

Dean sucked him dry with relish, and stood up to crash their mouths together, and Cas stuck a hand down his pants, barely closing around his cock before Dean came all over the both of them, dropping his head to Cas’s shoulder with a groan.

They swayed there panting for a minute. "Out of practice, my ass," said Cas.

Dean let out a noise best described as a mewling giggle—thank God, Cas thought, my adjectives are coming back—and gave Cas’s ass a hearty squeeze. “I think I got come on your leather,” he said apologetically.

“So I’ll get ‘em dry-cleaned,” said Cas with a shrug. “You’ve got a bathroom, right? I wanna clean up a little.”

“Sure, sure. Me too. And, uh, then I guess I can drive you over to the hotel?”

Cas ran a gentle finger over Dean’s cheekbone, trailed it down his jaw. “Drive _us,_ ” he said. “You’re going to stay with me, and I’m going to fuck you in the morning.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up that there is _somehow_ no porn in this chapter? Suddenly there were all these FEELINGS happening, and I wanna keep these updates about the same length. Next chapter's straight to the action.
> 
> Also, I stole the first couple sentences from Liz Phair.

Dean woke up alarmed. He didn't know where he was at first—the bed was too soft, the room too quiet. He blinked hard a few times, resisting the urge to just go back to sleep, and remembered: he'd gone back to Castiel Novak's—Cas's—hotel. He was naked in bed with an internationally bestselling author, who had promised in no uncertain terms to fuck him senseless in the morning.

It was morning now, right?

He turned on the lamp by his side of the bed as quietly as he could; rolling over, he saw Cas's dark head, hair even more mussed than usual, on the pillow next to him—right next to him, in fact, meaning they took up less than half of the king-size bed. 

The room had gotten warm overnight, and Cas had pushed the sheet down around his hips, which meant Dean could see the full panorama of his tattooed back and arms, only glimpsed last night.

There were trees, flowers, fabulous beasts—a phoenix, a chimera. Odin on his eight-legged horse, Sleipnir. A cherubim, all wings and eyes and fire. His whole right bicep was taken up by a giant octopus intertwined with a human skull. And everywhere in between, everywhere they could be crammed in, were words: scraps of poetry, quotes from novels, not all in English, some illegible, even overwritten by later tattoos. Dean's breath caught at the sight of a line scrawled along one shoulder blade: "It was a pleasure to burn." He reached out to trace it with his fingers, and Cas's shoulder twitched.

Dean smiled and moved his hand over Cas’s illustrated torso, down to grab his ass. It was an excellent ass: fleshy enough to be a handful, but sleek and powerful beneath the surface. Dean imagined how those muscles would flex beneath his grip as Cas pounded him into the mattress, and was immediately fully awake and erect.

“Hey,” he hissed into Cas’s ear, nipping at the base of his neck. “Wake up.”

Cas made a despairing noise and rolled over to face Dean without opening his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re a morning person,” he muttered.

“No, I’m a middle-of-the-night person. It’s 4 a.m.,” Dean told him.

Cas groaned the unhappy kind of groan. "Shit, I have to get up in a hour."

"All the more reason," said Dean, "for you to get _up_ now so you can put that delicious cock in me."

A happy groan this time. "Keep talking like that, and you're on."

"Good." Dean cupped his chin, and they were kissing again, slow and sleepy on Cas's part. So Dean took the lead, pushed his tongue deep into the other man's mouth and tugged on his nipple rings (which had been an awesome discovery during some furious dry-humping in Dean's Impala after they made it to the parking garage).

Cas soon warmed up, licking into Dean's mouth eagerly; he rolled onto his back and urged Dean on top of him so he could thrust his stiffening cock against Dean's own. "Do you mind doing all the work?" he asked, punctuating his words with a heave of his hips that made Dean whimper.

"All of it, yeah. Most of it, no," said Dean. "I'll ride you like—like a drunk girl on spring break rides a mechanical bull." Cas stared up at him in horror. "Look, I don't win awards for my metaphors, OK? I'm just saying, fine, I'll handle the heavy lifting, as long as you don't actually doze off."

"You have my word as a card-carrying member of the SFWA," said Cas solemnly, "I will not fall asleep while I'm fucking you."

"Oh, shit, do you actually have a card? Can I see it?"

“If you want. It’s in my wallet, which you will find in the blue duffel bag on the couch, along with the condoms and lube you’re about to fetch.”

Dean hopped out of bed with alacrity. “This bag, right?” he asked with a glance over his shoulder. Cas had propped himself up on one elbow and was watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. Dean grinned and bent over farther than necessary, shaking his ass like a showgirl.

Cas laughed. “I think I’d like you if I knew you, Dean,” he said. “In more than the carnal sense.”

Dean stopped mid-rummage, heart in his throat. "Come on, don't say that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Doesn't matter if it's true, it doesn't change anything," Dean said as he tried to cover his consternation by returning to his search. He turned, supplies in hand. "You're leaving in, what, forty-five minutes? And then we'll never see each other again. So this is just what it is—it’s a hookup, it's fun, and then it's over. It shouldn't go any deeper than that."

"Why not?" Cas asked again. "You're saying sex is less fun if I like you? I'm sorry, I can't help it."

“No, of course not. Knowing me, though—you don’t know me, and you’re not going to, so it doesn’t really matter whether you want to or not.”

“Who says I’m not going to?”

“Uh, our _lives._ Our responsibilities. I’ve got a bookstore in Overland Park, you live somewhere in Illinois, right? I have to run Good Books, you have tours and cons and writing brilliant novels. Tonight is just a, it’s like something you’d write about. Like a pocket dimension, where we can just step outside of time and space for a minute. But we have to go back.” Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling utterly defeated.

“Dean. Lie down, come back here,” said Cas, his voice suddenly commanding. Dean complied, tucking his feet back under the sheet; he was startled when Cas took his face firmly between his hands and met his eyes with that searing, impossibly blue stare.

“I’m not saying this is love at first sight, Dean, that we share some immediate profound bond. But this is what _happens_ when two people meet. They decide, OK, I want more of this person, and then they do that. I’ve got a fucking _phone,_ Dean. I live a day’s drive away, and I can write anywhere. I _want_ to know you, Dean, so I’m going to.” He leaned forward and kissed Dean, fiercely.

After a moment, Dean pulled away, held Cas’s gaze, then ran a shaking hand through his hair. “All right,” he said, “OK. Chick flick moment over. I’d like to get back to the hardcore porn, please.”


	6. Chapter 6

"Gladly," said Cas, and surprised Dean by pinning him on his back, grinding his cock to life against his thigh.

Dean’s head spun as blood rushed downward; he arched his back into Cas’s weight, trying to lift himself up and failing utterly. Those muscles weren’t just for show—he was pretty sure Cas could keep him from moving at all if he wanted to.

Which was _incredibly_ fucking hot.

"Uh,” he said weakly, while Cas licked up his neck from where it joined his shoulder, “I thought you wanted me to drive?"

"I do eventually," said Cas, "but if I’m going to get to know you, I might as well start with how you taste." He sealed his lips to Dean's, drove his tongue deep into his mouth, lips and teeth ravenous, dominant.

Dean was breathless when he finally pulled away a half-inch. "OK, so what do I taste like?" he panted, dazzled by Cas’s eyes gone hazy with desire. 

"Like you went to bed without brushing your teeth."

Dean laughed. "Yeah, and you taste like that, but also curry."

“Mmm, that’s morning sex for you,” chuckled Cas into his jaw. He found a spot right below Dean’s ear and sucked, and Dean’s higher-level thinking shut down, brain opting for essential functions only: breathe. Beat. _Feel._

He felt Cas’s hands everywhere, pinching at a nipple, dragging nails down his side, holding one hip tight in a bruising caress. One hand finally found the rigid line of his cock, swirled the fluid gathering at the slit around the head and slid down to grip the shaft. He started up a slow, lazy glide that soon had Dean gulping shuddering breaths as he pushed through Cas’s fist.

Dean was just starting to pick up the pace when Cas abruptly flipped him on his stomach, spreading his cheeks for a better view of the tight flush of his entrance. He kissed him there, sloppy and eager, pulling his ass wider to get his tongue inside. Dean writhed beneath him, rocking up into his thrusts, bearing down into the mattress in a vain attempt to ease the ache of his cock.

“Oh God, Cas, oh fuck, your fucking _mouth,”_ he groaned, and then, _“oh fuuuuck,”_ as Cas popped his thumb through the ring of muscle, holding him open while he fumbled for the lube.

Dean jumped at the chill of the liquid as Cas worked it into his rim, jumped further at a sudden bite at the flesh of his ass. Cas replaced his thumb with a slicked finger, plunging deeper and kissing the dip at the base of Dean’s spine. “You’re beautiful like this, Dean,” he whispered, “spread out for me like a banquet. I wish I had hours to devour you.”

All Dean could say was “Yes.” So he just kept saying it, while Cas fucked him open, sliding in another finger to scissor and stretch. And then he was lying on his back again—Cas sucked a hickey above his collarbone and shoved in a third finger, reaching for his prostate. Dean shifted to help him, and let out a hoarse yell when Cas made contact.

With the hand not half-buried in Dean’s ass, Cas grabbed him behind one knee and pushed up and out until his knee met his ribs. "Ow!" Dean yelped in unison with a crack of protest from the joint.

"Sorrysorrysorry," said Cas, releasing his leg.

"I haven't been that flexible in a decade," said Dean ruefully. "Here." He grabbed a throw pillow and slipped it beneath his hips. More gently than before, Cas folded him up, moved down his body to lick up his cock, sucking the salty drops he found at the tip before sinking down nearly to the hilt. 

Dean was pretty far gone already, and between the sinful wet heat of Cas’s mouth and the relentless drive of fingers against his sweet spot, he barely lasted a minute before he came, flinging his arms out to clutch at the sheets and shouting something like _“holyfuckinglordCasCasCas”_ as Cas swallowed around him like he was parched with thirst.

Cas pulled his mouth off and grinned with swollen red lips. “You taste like the ocean,” he said.

“Thank you,” gasped Dean. “And you’re welcome.”

Cas twitched inside him. “You ready?” he asked.

“God, yes,” said Dean.

“Good,” said Cas, “because I’ve run out of steam.” He slid his fingers out, making Dean whimper at the sudden emptiness, and flopped onto his back.

“Just gimme a minute,” said Dean, wearily patting the back of Cas’s hand. Cas turned it palm up to tangle their fingers together. They lay there while Dean came down from his orgasm; Cas idly rubbed his thumb across Dean’s knuckles, the innocent caress sending tense little shocks through Dean’s nervous system. Dean squinched his eyes shut and gave himself a stern talking-to.

Cas could talk all he wanted about a future for this, but that was not how Dean Winchester’s life worked.

Once he’d caught his breath and tamped his hopes back down where they belonged, he turned to Cas and slung a leg over his pelvis, raising up to straddle him and letting the cleft of his ass nudge the base of the other man’s cock. He stroked it thoroughly hard while Cas hummed happily, eyes drowsy and hands soft along Dean’s thighs.

“Come on, baby,” Cas said, voice thick and warm. “I want you.”

Wordlessly, unable to tear his gaze away from the dizzying sight of Cas relaxed and lithe beneath him, Dean felt around the bedspread for the condom, tore it open, rolled it slowly down as Cas arched into his touch. He got up onto his knees and adjusted them so the head of Cas’s cock lined up with his slippery opening and worked himself onto it, circling his hips as he filled himself up. Cas moaned as he bottomed out, and Dean gasped in turn. His hands were braced on Cas’s chest, Cas’s heart pounding into his palm.

“Dean, you feel so good,” Cas murmured, pulling his face down for a kiss. 

Spine curving like a bow, Dean lifted halfway and sank down deeper, sucking Cas’s full lower lip into his mouth. “You fit inside me so goddamn well,” he whispered.

“It’s a good place to be,” said Cas.

Dean began to grind, unconsciously moving in time with Cas’s heartbeat, Cas’s hips rolling gently in answer. They built a rhythm between them—leisurely at first, until Dean wanted more, and he pushed himself up to arm’s length to ride him in earnest, slamming up and down, controlling the angle so Cas’s cock hit his prostate with every thrust. He wasn’t going to come again, he wasn’t nineteen anymore, but he could take all the pleasure he could from these moments, ease that yawning void inside him that never really went away.

And he could watch Cas in ecstasy, his inked torso an illuminated manuscript of bliss, his breath stuttering, his eyelashes fluttering, his lips shaping Dean’s name but making no sound. Like watching the sunrise: an everyday miracle.

Cas found his voice when he came: _“Dean, yes, Dean, you’re so good,”_ digging his nails into Dean’s shoulder blades, pulling him close so they were chest to chest as he emptied himself into latex.

Dean kissed him through the aftershocks, brushing sweaty bangs off his forehead. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much for this.”

“Any time,” said Cas. “What time is it?”

“Twenty till. Do you wanna nap, or just get up? We could shower.”

“Sounds good.”

Their shared ablutions possibly left some parts of their bodies unattended. Others, however, were scrupulously clean.

“Do you want a shirt so you don’t have to do the walk of shame? Or are you going home before you open the store?” asked Cas, pulling clean boxers out of his duffel bag. “All I have is black.”

“I’m good. I mean, you can’t exactly miss these anyway,” said Dean, pointing out the purpling bruises Cas had left on his neck. “I look like a teenager after prom.”

“It’s a good look for you,” said Cas, leaning in to nip at his handiwork. “Meg’s gonna knock on my door any minute, though. Do you want to leave before she does?”

“No,” said Dean, the thought of departure like a punch to the gut. “But I will.”

Cas took his face in his hands and kissed him sweetly, like he’d been doing it for years. “I’ll text you when we land in St. Louis, OK?”

“Right,” said Dean flatly. “Sure.”

Cas lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t know who made you think good things couldn’t happen to you, Dean, but I’m going to enjoy proving them wrong. I’ll text you.”

Four hours later, he did.


End file.
